Death At Their Fingertips
by TheAUWalker
Summary: Avengers Renaissance AU. Teenverse, NatashaxOC. Natasha, as usual, is being chased, stoned, and shunned for something, and stumbles upon an old crypt that her reclusive friend seems to have visited. Intrigued, she pokes into the matter, and finds herself wondering if she really should have unleashed Evelynn Taft.


**A/N: An Avengers Renaissance AU with my friend's OC Evelynn Taft paired with Natasha. A really long piece I worked on for a year or so, and finally wrapped it up for her birthday this year. **

**Happy Birthday, my TARDIS c:**

**-o-o-o-o**

_Death At Their Fingertips_

Evelynn Taft is burning.

Flames are licking up her skin, more scalding than anything and it feels abhorrent and impossible to remain still in this flesh and bone cage and bear it and she wishes that as peculiar as she was, her uniqueness could have granted her one more grace.

She still feels pain, every prick and poke.

Her wrists are tied with rope that is catching sparks and it is so heinous that she wonders how these men call themselves followers of God. Evelynn has lost most faith in the deity, but this surely cannot be ethical for anyone; to die like this. Evelynn's throat is raw from pushing out desperate, shrill noise, but her vocal chords continue to release bloodcurdling, inhuman sounds and it scares her, a little. She wonders if she is bleeding, down into her lungs. Maybe she would drown in fire.

She is thinking too much but there is not much else to do, think and writhe around like a worm.

Not a witch, not a witch like they have proclaimed she is. Evelynn is convicted, sent to death, but she is not a witch. Marked, somehow, by the very phenomenon she is being condemned for, but not a witch. The ring of people around her stand with their hands behind their backs and their emotionless, blanched faces, watching her die, coattails flapping in the wind that is gleefully batting the fire.

They are all in black, like crows, the men who have damned her, and they watch her wail and burn intently like a vulture keeps a keen eye on its prey.

She is burning, and Evelynn can feel herself slipping away, brief, deafening, silent moments of blackness that leave her ears ringing.

_It would be a mercy_, she thinks, and throws her chin back to look at the sky. It is a deep blue, like a fish, and sparkling stars. Her head hits the splintering post and it aches and Evelynn almost smiles because there is no more mercy for someone like her.

Fire on her face, and descending darkness like the cloak of death shuffles Evelynn Taft off her mortal coil.

* * *

Evelynn wakes up, and she is sore. There is no extra pain except everything including her fingernails and hair follicles aching, and Evelynn wonders if she is in heaven or hell, or someplace in between. But in a few minutes she realizes that she is not dead at all, not unless Death has a sick sense of humor and she is some sort of living dead product.

She can see the porcelain white bones of her legs, exposed under the layer of burnt, scorched, black and red flesh, oozing blood and nasty things that should not be coming out. But it does not hurt, she strains to keep her head up and just gazes.

It makes bile rise to the back of her throat-which still feels raw and bloody. She wonders how far the fire has gotten inside her, if there is smoke and soot in her lungs, if it wrapped around her eyes and twisted up her nose.

Then, right before her eyes, the flesh closes over the bone and the burns disappear, and Evelynn shuts her eyes, feeling tears well up behind her eyelids. She is hallucinating.

_Not again._

Someone prods her with a stick, and Evelynn's eyes fly open in shock. There are several screams and shouts, utter animalistic panic coming from the very people who were expressionless enough to stand by and watch her burn alive. They have done it before, she suddenly thinks, and now one is coming back and they must not feel so high and mighty now.

One of them, the town's priest, takes slow footsteps towards her.

"You are not dead."

Evelynn has a sudden urge to spit out _no shit_, holds her tongue. She knows this man who hides behind the peace of God can be ruthless as a wolf chasing down its prey.

They take her down from the wooden stake and then on the floor and drag her behind them under her shoulders like a piece of dead meat. Evelynn feels dirt and sticks and blood mucking on her ankles while her wrists are yanked awkwardly above her head. It is painful but part of her does not really mind, everything is dull.

She is moved to a cold stone room, tomb-like, and Evelynn knows what they will attempt.

"You are not dead, witch." The priest repeats, his eyes glittering like the very demons he seeks to hunt. "Do not think we will cease to exterminate you."

There is cold metal pressed to her temple, and then abruptly Evelynn is shot in the head like a vagrant. All it takes is the tilting girl with her corset extra tight who lives down the street to whisper a few words in the ear of someone important, and they are gone. But not Evelynn, she is still here.

There are four men with her and when she snaps right back, the hole in her head closing up, they kick the chair she is tied to forward with a dissatisfied grunt and Evelynn is drowning in cold water that makes her lungs burn for air. Once her body slumps, she is just as rigid again, alive. They slit her neck and her wrists. Her body remakes the blood and Evelynn is up, gasping her first new breath. The men try poisoning her, cutting off her limbs and her head, hanging her, crushing her skull, stabbing her, strangling her, and ripping out chunks of her flesh.

The priest told them to be creative, to do whatever it takes. Evelynn is shaking, ghost tremors of the past killings causing her to spasm. Her body is aching, but she will not let pleads escape her trembling lips. No. If they find a way to kill her, she will die proud and with dignity. She is not an animal.

But she does not know what she is.

They are holding her by her long black hair, ready to split her skull, when a boy bursts into the room. He is panting, sweaty, damp hair tendrils hanging down over his face, and clutching several old scrolls.

Finally, he straightens up.

"We're doing it wrong."

Unfurling the scroll, he reads off in a triumphant manner.

"...may be finally damned to rest by finding their Achilles heel."

Evelynn's chest seemed to close up and her lips press together because she knows like the boy knows that this is it. It is almost a relief, but a small voice speaks and she does not want to die.

"So it's been her ankle this whole time?" One of the men behind her asks, scratching his head, his rough voice like gravel.

The boy slaps his hand to his forehead.

"No, you idiot. An Achilles heel is like a weak spot. It could be anywhere on her body. If we find it, and stick a stake in it or something, she won't come back."

The boy rummages around in his pocket and pulled out a short metal spike.

"So do we just stab 'er with it until we find it?"

The boy nods.

"Once you find it, make sure it never comes out."

* * *

There was an accident.

Evelynn was coming back to town from the docks, riding her horse at a steady speed, and the bridge boards broke. She and the frenzied animal fell through to the water-filled ditch below, a fall high enough to kill. It did kill them both, but Evelynn got up and the horse did not.

Evelynn stood up, a broken board impaled straight through her stomach, and wobbled around to face the crowd on the bridge.

It was the first time that she died, and the time she was expected to be dead, of course, but she was not and no one could really explain it.

Pity, the villagers thought, a sweet young girl gone to her death from an old bridge. Should really be fixed, the damn ivy wormed its way around the rusty nails.

Except Evelynn wasn't dead. Most people dismissed it as pure luck and helped her to get the board out of her stomach, noting with wonder that she never had any infection. But the rumors started to come out of their shadowy corners that Evelynn was not human, and in such times rumors like that were certain death. Evelynn knew she should have been dead. There was no way that was luck. She knew there was something about her that made her different from everyone else. She wondered if she would cease to regenerate if she died too many times, or maybe it was a one-time thing.

Whatever the..._ability_ entailed, Evelynn grew to see it as both a gift and a curse. She wasn't clumsy, but she got distracted easily, her mind randomly plagued by the feel of ghost hands on her body. They felt like Sierra's hands, her late girlfriend-

Come to think of it, that was probably another reason why she was convicted of witchcraft. But when the touches came, she would be absent-minded, and sometimes have a small accident. Or a large one, involving a kitchen knife. Evelynn got distracted and the next thing she knew there was white-hot pain on her arm and blood dripping down to the floor. Still paralyzed, she had to watch as the blood flowed out of her wrist.

When she came to, the cut was sealing right before her eyes.

"Shit." Evelynn breathed, pressing herself up against the whitewashed wall.

It could be a gift, keeping her alive when she made a stupid mistake. But Evelynn wondered what it would be like to sit in a rocking chair as a frail old woman for centuries. She knew that she would get tired of life, maybe want it to end-

That wouldn't be an option for Evelynn Taft. She would have to stay alive forever.

And then, there was Sierra. Evelynn had never been open about her sexuality, for obvious reasons. She was a quiet little thing, but tough, as you had to be to survive in this world. Sierra was different, brave and outgoing, in some the opposite of Evelynn. Sierra was warm, fire, and she was one of the only Evelynn told about her secret. But after Sierra, Evelynn grew harder, and she did not love again. Sierra was put to death for rebelling, openly kissing Evelynn on the mouth.

During torture she refused to let the smile slip from her face, telling the men jokes with a cracking voice. They made Evelynn watch when they shot her in the back of the head.

But Evelynn was not convicted because Evelynn was forced to pretend that she did not know Sierra, that she did not have a taste for girls at all, that she was offended. They thought they were actually being nice, letting the offended watch the offender die.

But unlike Evelynn Sierra did not come back.

A while after Sierra, when she was still trying to get over the wisp of Sierra's last smile, Evelynn met Clint Hawkeye. He was the same age as her and was deadly with a bow, but did not hang out with the other boys in the town. He was quiet, and found Evelynn by the well.

They became fast friends, a little awkward at first but then they bloomed very close. But there was nothing romantic and there was not anything that needed to be said about it, it just was.

Evelynn had her friend and everything was okay.

* * *

The flood of memories was flowing behind her closed eyelids until the reel finally stopped on the most recent.

The priest's..._assistant_ and her had never been friends. Evelynn was quiet, and tried to just live her life and get along with everybody, but for some reason the other girl just decided to take a pill.

It was the other girl who complained, and Clint came to visit her when Evelynn was thrown behind bars. She had not yet told him.

His hands were shaking as he wrapped them around her fingers, clenching the cold metal bars.

"Lynn." He said, sadly.

"Clint, I'm not going to die." Evelynn spoke softly, comfortingly.

He did not understand and when she explained, for some reason, his smile was fake.

"They are not going to stop after that, Lynn. You need to get out."

She promised him she would and it was still ringing in her ears when they drove the spike into the small of her back, the last thing she heard a triumphant yell. And just like that, Evelynn Taft was gone.

* * *

Natasha Romanov was living in Russia with friends and family for nearly all of her teenage years.

Nasty surprise on her nineteenth birthday-she was going to England, to live in a small town she had never heard of with one nagging aunt and a small suitcase. They wanted Natasha to experience the world and most would cry, but Natasha held her head high, red hair swinging past her set jaw.

So she went. Natasha Romanov was almost immediately an outsider for her accent and her features. Hair as red as blood and high cheekbones like no one else in the small English town. Natasha was a little slow with responding, a little awkward, and so the village kids her age dismissed her. But she was not without friends, even though it left a hole in her chest to not be accepted.

She met Bruce Banner first.

He was quite a quiet child and an outcast too-they said his father was a crazy, good for nothing scientist who experimented horrifically on his children and wife. Natasha didn't see anything wrong with Bruce. He told her that he could never, ever get too angry or something terrible would happen. Natasha believed him and they sort of had wobbly trust, Bruce still learning not to flinch when Natasha touched his shoulder.

After Bruce, there were Steve and Tony.

Steve Rogers was actually from America, muscular, tall, blonde, an athlete, someone who should have fit in with the village boys if he didn't happen to prefer his own sex. Tony Stark, clever with his hands, was Steve's not-so-secret significant other. Blessed with striking features that most dreamt of, he had a sharp tongue and a quick mind. It was Tony who barged into Natasha's life first, Steve dutifully following behind.

Thor and Loki, two brothers all the way from Norway, always squabbling. She wasn't really friends with Loki(to Natasha's credit, he was difficult to be friends with) but they had sort of a cordial, formal relationship, saying hello before Thor smashed Loki through a cabbage cart for the tenth time that week due to the raven-haired boy scratching his prized hammer.

Natasha had a few other friends, scattered around the town that she didn't get to see much, another blonde and raven haired pair in love but not quite knowing it yet.

Then there was Mr. Hawkeye. He was a few years older than Natasha and very quiet, his eyes filled with a sadness that no one could really place. The man had the air of seeming much older than he actually was. He worked at the graveyard, managing funerals and things, and Natasha met him when she tripped on a root.

Natasha wasn't taken about death-she just liked graveyards. She didn't think they were scary, she thought they were peaceful. One day she was walking around and she fell with a very unladylike screech, scratching her leg, and the next moment there were thundering footsteps.

Natasha was scared at first at the silhouette of a muscular man holding a pitchfork. But he knelt, offering her a hand.

"I thought it was those damn kids messing around with the headstones again."

The man eyed her.

"You're not with them, are you?"

"No, sir." Natasha replied quickly, brushing her skirt off. "Just out for a walk."

"Interesting place to walk."

She shrugged.

"It's quiet."

His eyes searched hers for a minute, and then a corner of his mouth tugged up in a lopsided smile.

"Come on. I'll patch up your leg for you."

And that was how their friendship started.

There were a lot of secrets about Clint Hawkeye, about his past and why he hadn't gone with his esteemed cousin Mycroft further north to go to college. He was certainly smart enough for college, and no one really gave a damn about the graveyard he took care of. His father had been the caretaker of it, and Clint certainly didn't have to shoulder the duty when his father died.

But Natasha just didn't ask.

They had some sort of mutual understanding about Clint's past, and Natasha respected it, even though she told him about her own. He was an archer, too, and when Natasha found out it changed her life and entire basis of thought on him.

"What's that, Mr. Hawkeye?"

Clint looked up from whittling a tiny bird out of a block of wood, following Natasha's gaze to an old trunk in the corner.

"Ah, that." He said dismissively. "It's nothing."

"Can I see?"

He was quiet for a long moment.

"Open it up."

Natasha knelt by the old wooden case, carefully unhooking the metal clasp and pushing up the lid. A small puff of dusty air drifted out. There was an elegant black bow and quiver, stocked with sleek black arrows. It was long and stiff, the string a tad yellowed, and the leather-wrapped grip stained with something that looked like blood. It took her breath away.

"Is this yours?"

"No, I stole it." Clint teased her, but the smile gradually slipped off his face. "It was my dad's."

"Can you use it?"

With a sudden resignation, Clint strode towards her and picked up the bow and quiver. With a fluid moment there was an arrow strung, perfectly steady and lined up, and then suddenly there was a thud across the room. The arrow stuck straight in the middle of a miniscule wine stain on the wall.

"I haven't used this in about five years." He mused quietly, lowering the weapon.

Natasha's knuckles were white, gripping the arm of the chair.

"Why haven't you been in archery?" She demanded.

"I told you, I haven't taken this old thing out in five years. Don't care for competition anyway. I prefer to go solo."

And so as their friendship grew Clint trained himself to recognize the sound of Natasha's tread on the marshy ground so he did not have to come rallying with a pitchfork every time she came walking. It was probably a good thing he did not find out until much later that Natasha had dipped her toes into her own interpretation of his past of being involved in archery.

She crafted herself a makeshift bow, made of stiff wood with a slight bend and a sewing string from her aunt's trunk. When she whittled her first arrow and pulled it back with two fingers, she nearly took her own eye out.

The arrow bounced off Natasha's forehead with a _twang_, but she would not give up.

Natasha wanted to learn archery even though girls were forbidden to. It was a man's sport and a man's world. So, she became a man. Natasha disguised herself as a boy for her very first beginner's archery competition, and it was her first time with a real bow. Her hands were shaking, and Natasha knew that they would not always provide. She would need to get one.

When she drew the bow up taught, her hands steadied, and Natasha released the green-feather arrow.

It landed with an almost cheerful thunk in the bull's eye. The target was close, it could have been lucky and Natasha knew she would still need to practice, but it did not stop a smile from flooding her face. Boys whacked her on the back, and she was presented with her prize-a small pack of 5 arrows identical to the ones she had been shooting.

In a sort of way, she got addicted.

Competition after competition, Natasha kept stringing and shooting, practicing and winning. She rose within the ranks, even got to the expert competitions.

Oh, she knew they fought dirty for it. Little casual bumps, a few disturbing words before your turn, a small thing to mess you up. But Natasha improved her style, disguise, and comebacks with every week, and she could easily pass for one of the town's lads. It was nearly impossible to tell she was actually a girl.

But not quite impossible.

Possibly one of the most important moments in her life was ruined. Natasha was ready to take the shot, arrow up and poised, and was just about to release when the village idiot came racing through the arena, chasing a pig. She saw John throw himself at the boy, noticing that he was heading straight for Natasha. He crashed into her, and her hat tumbled off.

Long, red waves cascaded from her head and with the absence of the hat came the appearance of feminine eyebrows, and suddenly every other slightly feminine feature was zeroed in on, hawk-like.

"GIRL!"

The shout rang through, disgust and outrage on the boys' faces.

Natasha dropped her bow and ran. They were yelling, chasing after her, throwing rocks and jeers. A few slowed, giving up the chase, but the majority of the boys refused to let her get away with it. Natasha found herself running to the graveyard, desperately clinging on to the notion that Clint might be home and he could help her. Great, gasping breaths heaved from her chest, and tears welled up in her eyes.

Her boots sunk into the marshy ground and were released with an unpleasant sucking sound, sometimes hardly giving way and Natasha worried she would fall. Too late, after about ten minutes, she realized that Clint's house was in the opposite direction, and she could not just turn around and go back the way she had come.

But Natasha was lost.

Unfamiliar headstones and trees, mist along the ground, pits of mud and overgrown patches of grass-much farther than she had ever walked with Clint. She could still hear them behind her, cursing and trampling across the land. It was a huge graveyard, and actually the only one for miles around.

A little more ground was covered and then she reached an odd low fence. It was a bunch of stones heaved into place, making a low wall around a cobwebby crypt. It was about the size of a small shed, and there were no other graves around it.

Natasha stepped over the wall.

She couldn't hear her pursuers anymore so she walked slowly, circling the structure. It was old and dusty, broken down, the door chained shut. Something sent a flame of pain into her ankle. Natasha looked down to see a small stick in the mud, a whittled bird glued to the top of it. It was the beak of it that had cut her leg.

There was an outline of a grave in front of the stick, and with a shock, Natasha realized that the wood was nearly rotten. It had to at least be a few years old. And the bird sparked a few memories; exactly like the ones Clint whittled. Was this the grave of his father? A pet?

In a few years, all outlines should have faded. So why could she still see it? A chill ran up her spine. Someone must have just recently dug this grave up.

Every sense Natasha had was telling her to run _now_, to go, to be rational, but for some reason Natasha felt like something was pulling her towards the crypt. She pushed at the door, and it swung open with a creak. The chains had been cut, and a few links on the ground clinked as she stepped cautiously inside. The air was stale and stagnant, musty and smelling of sawdust.

There was only one coffin in the crypt, heaved carefully up onto the table. The lid was half-pried open, nails sticking out and showing, and part of the coffin had been cut away to get to the nails. A saw lay beside the coffin along with several other tools.

Natasha picked up the hammer.

The end of it, the nail-lifting part, had broken off. On the handle, burnt into the wood, was someone's surname. _Vega._

Natasha had never heard the name and she had no idea what kind of creep had something to do with digging up and prying open coffins. Judging by the look of it, the buried person wasn't very wealthy, so it was unlikely the intruder was a grave robber; or maybe they were just ignorant. Her next move was possibly insane, but like an invisible band was drawing her to it, Natasha put down the hammer and stepped over by the coffin.

She started to pry the unmarked lid off.

It was a simple wooden one with extra support, but part of it had caved in. Natasha dug the dirt out, caking it on her hands and fingernails, and pried the rest of the wood out. There is a woman's body inside the coffin. Long, silky black hair flows down her back, and a blue skirt lay bunched around her legs. Natasha can't help but smooth the skirt out, make it neat.

She felt sorry for the woman.

Her fingers reached a bump in the skirt and Natasha pulled it down to uncover the small of the woman's back, where there is a small metal spike embedded in the skin, the dried blood around the wound not even cleaned off.

It is cruel that they sent her to rest like this.

There are many scars on the woman's body but Natasha's eyes keep going back to the spike. She's not scared of the woman and it just doesn't seem right to her to just leave it. Hesitation flits across her mind before she makes an impulsive choice.

She pulls, it slides out, and Natasha places it on the table and pulls the woman's skirt back up.

After a moment of hesitation, Natasha knows she should just go. She turns to leave and there is a crashing noise from behind her and when Natasha whirls the coffin is on the floor, bottom up.

Guilt floods her.

It is too heavy for Natasha to pick back up and put it on the table, but she knows if she just left the coffin there that it would bother her until the end of her days. There is a bang, and a woman's fist punches through the wood.

Natasha screams.

The fist is slender, _whole_, not rotten like a dead person's hand should be. Natasha backs into the door and she cannot push it outward anymore. She is stuck. Damned. Natasha closes her eyes and prays, prays to God that whatever she did to unleash this witchcraft will be forgiven.

"God damn!" comes the muffled voice from under the coffin.

Natasha is frozen.

The coffin is thrown to the side and a woman stands up, tossing her long hair back over her shoulder and pressing a hand to the hole at the small of her back.

"Oh, hello."

Her vocal cords are apparently absent, and Natasha gapes like a fish.

"What?"

"You were _dead!_" Natasha bursts out.

"Oh, dear." the woman pressed another hand to her forehead briefly. "For how long?"

"F-five years, it looked like!"

"Where am I?"

"Cemetery!"

The woman picks up the hammer, eyes focusing on the name.

"Thanks for breaking me out."

"I...I only did the last bit..."

The woman smiles at her and sticks out a hand.

"Evelynn Taft."

Natasha shakes, and the hand is so warm and real and not dead.

"Natasha Romanov. You..."

Evelynn, thankfully, seems to understand her confusion, and explains all about the false witch conviction and her regenerative abilities and how they were trying to keep her dead.

"This was in your back."

Natasha hands her the spike and Evelynn examines it.

"Ah, yes."

It is evident to both of them why someone would want Evelynn dug up-her blood could engineer a super, immortal army, or the eternal life of just one man.

Natasha can see there is something Evelynn wants to ask but she knows what it is just by the longing in her eyes.

"I don't know much about five years ago, I only came to town this year from Russia, but your friends are probably still around."

Evelynn's face lights up and Natasha can't help thinking how beautiful she looks, but with a flame in her cheeks she quickly banishes the thought. Evelynn probably has a fiance, or a boyfriend.

"Erm...do you know a Clint Hawkeye? He's my best friend."

Evelynn briefly had the look of a person who has lost everything(and she had, Natasha thought, rising from the dead with almost amnesia, missing five years)and Natasha knew she would help her.

A smile breaks out over the redhead's face. Before she can start, though, Evelynn is talking again.

"Thank you for everything, Natasha. I can't tell you how much of a relief it is to have someone not trying to kill me."

Natasha laughs with Evelynn and feels that uncomfortable feeling rise up in her again.

"I do know Mr. Hawkeye, actually. He looks after this place."

Suddenly it strikes Natasha why Clint didn't go off to America or anywhere else, why he stayed.

His best friend was buried in this cemetery. Clint doesn't make friends easily and it is so sweet that Natasha smiles again, telling Evelynn that she can take her to see him.

"This Vega person might come back soon, so we can go now if you'd like."

Natasha holds back the fact in her mind that Evelynn might not like her anymore the more time they spend together, but she might as well enjoy Evelynn's warming presence while she can. They walk in silence back to Clint's, feet squishing in the marshy ground.

It is dark out, almost nightfall, and Clint is sitting outside with a lantern on the end of his pitchfork, whittling another wooden bird, and he sees Natasha first since Evelynn lingers back in the darkness.

Natasha breaks into a run.

"Mr. Hawkeye!"

He stands sharply, wood and knife falling to the ground.

"I was getting worried, Natasha, what happened to you?"

She only shakes her head impatiently, motioning behind her, and Evelynn walks into the circle of light.

There is silence, save for the crickets.

"Hello, Clint."

Clint shakes his head.

"Evelynn Taft, I had gotten the word that you died."

"Back now." Evelynn responded with a grin, and rushed towards Clint, catching him in a tight embrace. Natasha thinks she sees a few tears fall from Clint's eyes and is standing there nervously for a few minutes while they reunite.

"I should be getting home." Natasha says quietly. "It's dark. I'll help you find everything tomorrow, Evelynn, or Mr. Hawkeye can do it."

She walks away, leaving the two to talk, and can't help feeling a little sad that suddenly she isn't needed anymore.

* * *

The next morning, she helps John catch his dog. Bruce is having a bit of a bad day so Natasha cheers him up, ignoring her own inner turmoil, and then breaks up a fight between Thor and Loki. She finds Tony, busy at his workbench, and tells him to sit still while she goes to fetch the unusually moody Steve so the blond can draw him.

The Winchester brothers and their friend Castiel have to be pulled out of the town well.

Natasha's friend Ten is playing with fire again, and Natasha has to go get him Winchester-tainted water so he can extinguish his screwdriver. When she is finally done helping everyone her mind automatically sets her on the path to Clint's, and halfway there Natasha suddenly stops in the middle of the road, a dust cloud blowing around her feet.

Will they even want her there?

Part of her wonders if Evelynn and Clint are more than just friends, if they want to be alone, and the sun sets behind her. Natasha is alone on the road, dust swirling along with discarded leaves and the evening light making her hair shine like spun, bloody gold, the rickety wooden fence next to her creaking in the wind.

She wonders what would happen if she left.

Natasha does everything for her friends, cares for them and she is happy to, but part of her is wondering what else is in the world. Is there more? Could she be doing more, getting more out of this life?

Natasha wonders if she should just run. Keep running down the road and not stop, run right out of the town and never see anyone else again. But she doesn't. Perhaps it means she is weak, does not have a spine to do dangerous and reckless things, maybe it means she cannot stand up for herself. But Natasha also thinks that maybe it means her heart is with her friends and she has common sense, because the only one she knows beyond the boundaries of this town is Mycroft Holmes and she sure as hell won't go live with him. America, anywhere, seems so far away.

Natasha sure hopes it's common sense.

She starts walking, again, and it quiet when she reaches Clint's house. The windows are lit up and lively and Natasha lingers outside for a few minutes, fidgeting and fiddling with the hem of her shirt. Maybe she could introduce Evelynn to her friends. They do not seem that older than her, so she well get along with them and then maybe they will all forget about Natasha-

She needs to stop.

This whole thing is pinwheeling, spiraling, mixed emotions for Evelynn and things bubbling up that Natasha is not used to feeling. They are her friends, they will stay that way, and she is helping Evelynn because it is the right thing to do. Now is not the time for her emotions to get in the way and Natasha will not let them. She needs poise, to be the epitome of professional.

Her eyes flick to a spider crafting its web in the rafters above Clint's door, and as Natasha walks under the light she gets a closer look at it.

Black, with a red hourglass.

A black widow.

And perhaps that is what Natasha needs to be. Maybe she needs to push friends and emotion aside and get this thing done. She needs her mask, her face to the world when her default is crumbling.

Maybe it is time for Natasha Romanov to find herself.

-o-o-o-o

Natasha is distant from Evelynn, from everyone. The next few weeks it is like she is not even there and her friends notice her absence, ask her if everything is jolly and well, and Natasha tells them what they would like to hear. It is not the true answer, but they are concentrating on other things and her first-level confirmation is satisfaction enough for them.

In a week she meets a small group of people in the tavern, all glasses and briefcases, on their way to a science convention. There are two men, one loud and one chatty and English; and two women, one cold as ice and one silent as the grave. The two men are trying to be heard over one another and Natasha stands and wonders if she should tell them about Evelynn while she dries a glass.

She is horribly jealous, and she knows it is a sin but there is not a whole lot she can do.

Evelynn is in Natasha's life and Natasha is starting to not like it. Clint was her friend first-well, when Evelynn was buried-and she is meeting all of Natasha's friends and now Natasha feels like she is not special anymore to her friends.

She could tell and get Evelynn taken away and maybe she would feel guilty and maybe everyone would hate her and things wouldn't go back to normal, she wasn't stupid, she wouldn't do it. But the thought still crossed her mind, and for the first time that she had moved her from Russia, Natasha's toes crossed over the scrubbed, white-washed threshold of the chapel.

She didn't know much about demons-or whatever Evelynn could be but it was not natural and her being friends with Bruce or not it was scaring Natasha.

Her knees were still red and scraped from scrubbing the floor, but she bent with dignity and clasped her hands, her red hair reflecting the light and falling like a curtain over her cheekbones.

"Forgive-"

"Natasha?"

The voice was soft, and Natasha didn't turn. Bile rose in her throat, hot and sick, and possible regret of digging her up.

"I'm sorry to interrupt you."

Civil. She would be civil.

Natasha turned around.

"I wanted to make sure you were okay."

The comment was so _odd_ coming from the center of her miseries that Natasha made a sound in between a laugh and a cry.

"Natasha?"

"I want to be alone, Evelynn Taft. You have your friends looking for you."

"I'll go if you want me to-" Her voice was so soft, and a stab of guilt punctured Natasha-"But if you need someone to talk to-"

She could not bear it, but telling Evelynn that it was _her _would make Natasha feel even worse.

She tried to be the ideal that her mother and father wanted her to be-sweet Natasha, never sinning or wronging anyone, but sometimes she felt like a demon. The exact opposite of what her parents wanted, and they couldn't find out. No one could find out, no one could know about Evelynn Taft, dug up from the grave.

"Natasha?"

Evelynn was touching her, the woman's hand on her shoulder, and Natasha jerked away.

"Are you cross with me?"

Natasha didn't answer, hot tears filling her eyes.

Evelynn hesitated for a moment, and then sat down in the pew next to Natasha.

"I will be...out of your hair in a little bit, Natasha. I have needed time to arrange a voyage back to my home and see what family remains."

She sounded sad.

"I'm sorry for being such a burden on you like this. Please excuse me. I haven't seen Clint for ages and you are such a wonderful girl with wonderful friends, it has been so long since I have seen companionship. But in all this I have seen your withdrawal and fear I might have lost the very first thing that mattered to me. It's not an excuse, but I am trying to explain."

Natasha waited.

"I don't know if I have any family left but I cannot bear to stay here if it makes you so sad. Clint has been distracted and we are not spending enough time with you, Natasha. I'm sorry."

"I don't want you to leave because of me."

"It's not because of you. I do need to go, see who is still around."

Evelynn tried a smile, but it did not reach her eyes.

"You don't think you have anyone left, do you?"

Evelynn stared at the floor for a long, long minute.

"No, Natasha, I don't."

"Then stay!"

"I am stealing your friends-"

"They're always like that when someone new comes to town. They get over it. I get over it."

Evelynn did not look up.

"They will come looking for me, Natasha, and I cannot put you in danger. They will always be hunting me."

"Isn't dying with your friends fighting better than running alone?"

A sad smile tugged at Evelynn's lips.

"I cannot die, Natasha, you forget. I am to be captured and studied."

"We can hide you."

"It won't work."

The voice came echoing from the back of the church, and both women twisted in their seats.

Clint stood in the doorway, his weight resting against the door-frame.

"That's why I'm coming with you."

"Clint, you have a home-"

"It's never felt like a true home. We need to get on the move, protect you, and you'll need a sharp eye." Clint offered a smile.

Evelynn turned to look at Natasha, who was purposely avoiding her gaze.

"There's your way out, then."

"Natasha." Evelynn said softly. "I don't want to just leave-"

"You'd rather wait until they get here for you and kill us all?" Natasha's voice was harsh.

Clint took a few more steps into the church, his gaze set.

"Natasha, you don't need to-"

"Clint, please, leave it."

Evelynn rose, albeit a bit stiffly.

"I'll start to pack my things. Natasha, I'm sorry to have upset you."

Evelynn brushed past her and Natasha felt something drop into her lap. Her fingers quickly closed around it, hiding it from view, for it was clearly something that was not supposed to be seen by Clint. For a moment Natasha wondered if something was wrong that she did not know about-something with Clint and Evelynn-but considering the conversation she had just had with the older woman, it should be last words or something.

Natasha waited until the heavy doors of the church swung shut and then unfolded the paper.

In Evelynn's comfortingly smooth, neat handwriting covering the crumpled parchment there were shaky letters like her hand had been spasming. Like she was scared.

Natasha's fear returned.

It started with her name and then a confession that was almost like a plead. Evelynn was begging for Natasha to escape with her and she something was different about Clint and she knew he had changed but not like this, not like this.

_I am so sorry for asking you to leave everything._

Natasha had her friends here and she was not nostalgic about Russia. She felt like she did not really belong anywhere but with Evelynn-before, when it was just them, Natasha felt alive. She would go. They would try and stop her, find her, contain her, but her eighteenth birthday was coming up and she would do what she pleased.

But there was Clint, and for a moment Natasha was cautious about leaving him here to the town. What if he really was...dangerous, what if Evelynn was right, what if he hurt her friends?

She would need more answers.

But Natasha could not deny the selfish spark of pleasure she felt from Evelynn's note-she was needed, wanted, and she was almost not reading as her eyes skimmed over the rest of the note.

_I have a plan to get away; you know where to find me. I will understand if you wish to stay behind. Thank you for everything, Natasha._

It sounded too final and Natasha was scared that it was a lie and Evelynn was leaving without her. She crumpled the paper into her pocket and hurried out of the church.

-o-o-

"We have not had much time to get to know each other...you have your friends here..."

"You asked me to come with you and now you do not want me to go?"

Evelynn pressed her fingers to her temples.

"It was not easy for me, you know, to ask. I am asking for you to leave everything."

"I love my friends but there is not much else holding me here, Evelynn. But I must ask-what is worrying you about Clint?"

"He is...different than I remember him. Like I said in my note, I know people change, but there is something off."

"Do you think he is maybe allying with the scientists?"

"I...I don't know. I don't know if he would do that."

Natasha did not speak of the group that had been in town. They were gone and she was sure they were not after Evelynn. Not the type. It was a dangerous assumption but Natasha _knew_.

"We will go, Evelynn, and we won't have to worry about anything."

Natasha smiled at the pacing woman and rose to take her hand.

"Everything will be okay."

To her shock, Evelynn's shoulders rolled in a heaving sob. The woman's posture seemed to break.

"I have never believed in those words, Natasha."

"You can, Evelynn. This time."

They sat by the firelight.

"Have you packed?"

"You?"

"I haven't unpacked since I arrived."

Natasha stared into the embers of the fire, feeling Evelynn's smile.

"Are you sure you want to do this?"

"Please. Stop asking."

Evelynn pressed her lips tightly together and nodded carefully, like a horse cautiously holding its head against the rein.

"I am sure."

Natasha's hand found Evelynn's.

The next day Natasha was watching Clint, careful, stirring his stew while he talked avidly and worked on another bird. There was nothing different about him that she could see but now she was with Evelynn and she should be wary.

"Natasha?"

Her head shot up.

"Yeah?"

"Anything bothering you? You seem distant."

"Nothing. I'm just tired."

After a moment, he nodded.

"You know, Natasha..."

Fear filled her every pore and Natasha felt like she was suffocating.

"Thank you for everything you've done to help Evelynn."

Natasha nodded tightly, her fingers clenching around the wooden spoon.

"I'm also sorry if I've been acting odd. Some things came up..."

Her knuckles were white.

"What kind of things?"

"An old friend of , Gordon Freeman, went missing a while ago, and he just sent me a letter that he needs help where he is. I can't leave at the moment because of Evelynn-"

Natasha took time to unfreeze and then numbly dug the piece of crumpled parchment out of her pocket and walked over to hand it to Clint.

"I'm sorry." he said after a moment, lips pressed tightly together. "Evelynn doesn't know of Gordon. But I would never-"

"I don't exactly know if I was supposed to show that to you." Natasha confessed. "Evelynn might-"

"You don't need to mention it. Leave swiftly at dawn, and I wish you two the best of luck. Be safe, Natasha."

He gathered her in a warm embrace, pressing his lips briefly to her forehead.

"_Just please tell Evelynn I would never betray her."_

His words followed her out the door into the misty night, muddled in the threads of Natasha's cloak swishing behind her, ready to be taken to the wistful ears of their intender.

They would go, at dawn, and see the new world together, safe, an adventure.

* * *

At dawn, the two women with interlinked hands stepped into the small, gently tilting boat, and chilly fingers undid the rope look holding the boat to the bank of the river.

"Are you ready, Evelynn?"

The Asian woman nodded, some of her hair falling out of her braid and hanging over her face as she worked to tie knots over their packs, securing them to the boat.

"It will be an adventure, like in a storybook."

"This is no story, Evelynn, there are monsters and there is always a prince at the end who saves the day and they never worry about anything ever again."

_Morbid_, Evelynn mused, before a smile plucked at a corner of her cupid-bow lips.

"Do not worry so, Tasha."

"Sorry." Natasha apologized, tossing Evelynn an apple.

"And anyways, princes are overrated. I like the story where the two princesses end up together on their adventure best."

A warm blush heated Natasha's cheeks, pleasant, like a candle flame.

"Which story is that?"

"Ours, of course."

A giggle spilled from both of their lips, dancing over the rippling water like humming dragonflies, filled with a little bit of fear and the unexpected promise of what was ahead for the two.

A warm whisper found its way through the dawn fog, followed by the splash of a paddle pushing the boat off from the bank.

"_Allons-y."_


End file.
